


Follow You Down (The Mission Creep Remix)

by Malu_3 (Grainne)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Bets & Wagers, Exhibitionism, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Sexual Tension, Voyeurism, Workplace Relationship, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 06:48:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3758443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grainne/pseuds/Malu_3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Percival and Gwaine are on a mission to put an end to Merlin and Arthur's bickering. What starts as a bet in a pub escalates into a high-tech game with hearts (and cocks) on the line, as apparently even elite agents in Camelot's Secret Intelligence Service have trouble seeing – or admitting to – what's right in front of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Follow You Down (The Mission Creep Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GeekLover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekLover/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Follow You Down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/841874) by [GeekLover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekLover/pseuds/GeekLover). 



> GeekLover/geekslave, I was so pleased to get you as my remixee. Your pizza-licious kitchen sex piece _Eat It Up_ was one of my favorite-ever entries from last summer's P-thon, and this fest gave me an excuse to roll around in all your other fic goodness. With _Follow You Down_ – I'm not gonna lie – you had me at "canon," "Gwaine," and "sex chicken," but I was blown away by the intimacy and sensuality you packed into every act, and by the depth of Gwaine's understanding of Arthur, which allows him to push his royal buttons so well. I knew immediately that I wanted to explore Percival's and Merlin's POVs, then became obsessed with the ideas of interruption and distance, of trying to imagine how the game might be drawn out over time and space and what effect that would have on the characters.
> 
> How I got from that to this ridiculous modern fantasy/royal/spies AU version of Gwaine and Percival's workplace matchmaking is a story no one needs to hear – believe me, I'm still scratching my head – but I hope it brings at least a small smile to your face. Thank you for what you bring to fandom, and for letting me play with your awesome!
> 
> Profuse thanks also to the D-team for brainstorming, Asya for making time for me in her busy beta schedule and being such an amazing cheerleader, and the denizens of the Merlin Writers chatroom for some much-needed (in equal parts) laughter and writing sprints. And last but never least, thanks to the wonderful new Camelot Remix Mods for keeping this fest alive!

* * *

**_mission creep:_** a gradual shift in objectives during the course of a military campaign, often resulting in an unplanned long-term commitment

* * *

**May**

"I don’t know why I agreed to this," Merlin grumbles. He adjusts his grip on the large stone and braces himself against another fierce gust of wind.

They're high up in Camelot's White Mountains, high enough so that the fact that it's bloody _spring_ doesn’t mean a damn thing. There's ice in the streams and snow on the peaks; the exposed ground in the valleys is green-ish, but as hard as the rocks they've been collecting for the past hour.

"Don't you?" Percival shifts his rock to a one-armed grip and braces Merlin with his left hand. They struggle up the rise and down into the little dip where they've made camp, adding their rocks to the rough semi-circular wall they've been building up as a makeshift windbreak.

"I'm mountain rescue certified, pass my annual physicals and work in one of the most secure buildings in Camelot. Unless Kil slashes the break room budget and takes away all our tea and snacks, I'm fairly certain I do not need to brush up on my survival skills!"

"Of course you don't." Percival gives Merlin a knowing smile and claps him on his shoulder. "But it's been three months and we've yet to settle that bet. We just thought it'd be nice to get you and Arthur off someplace away from prying eyes and distractions."

Merlin throws up his hands in disgust, then quickly tucks them in his pockets. Even with thermal gloves on, he fancies he can feel the chill. He lets Percival steer him around the end of the windbreak into their camp, where Gwaine's just about got a fire going with the tinder they'd scavenged on the climb. 

There's still no sign of Arthur, which is both a relief – Merlin's had that arse in front of him all damn day, taunting him on their hike up from the drop zone – and a worry. He's used to being able to track Arthur when he's off in the middle of nowhere, not being off in the middle of nowhere himself with no way of sending help if Arthur, say, falls in an icy lake rescuing a distressed climber or pisses off a unicorn herder.

Merlin sighs and goes to help set up the tent. Percival and Gwaine are right, of course. Merlin knows exactly why he's here and it's both nothing and everything to do with survival. 

This wager has been eating away at his sanity, robbing him of what little rest he manages to scrape together between shifts. He's not coming down off this mountain until they've put an end to it, one way or another.

*** * * ***

**Three Months Earlier**

"Here we go again," Percival mutters. Even through the earpiece, Gwaine's answering chuckle gives him the shivers.

"Let me guess – Peacock's finally checked in with Mother Hen?"

"Right in one." Percival glances over at Merlin's workstation. As far as he knows the poor man hasn't left HQ in the 48-plus hours since Arthur was sent out – god knows when or if he's slept – but his hair's not as big of a wreck as it can be, his scarf's as dapper as ever, and he's straightened from his usual standing slouch into what Percival and the others in the tower refer to as his battle stance: back straight, legs apart, furious glare aimed up at the wall screen even as his fingers fly over his keyboard. 

Merlin's not shouting, exactly, but the exchange has grown heated enough that Percival can hear his end of it. 

"What is it this time?" Gwaine says. 

"The usual, to start – Peacock not happy with one of his new toys. Now it's something about pillows… Hang on, I'll get Mother Hen to put him on speaker." Percival waves to get Merlin's attention, points at the blinking white dot on the wall screen, then cups a hand to one ear. 

Merlin's grin is blinding. "Oops," he mouths as he punches in the command, and suddenly the room is filled with Arthur's posh voice in mid-rant.

"…on purpose. Because I cannot fathom how anyone of your alleged intelligence could 'accidentally' reserve an executive suite rather than a royal one!"

"It's still a suite," Merlin says. "In a four-star hotel, no less. High floor, warm slippers, chocs on your _wholly inadequate_ pillows. The rest of us make do with far less."

"The rest of you don't have to seduce an actual Sidhe princess in order to acquire the package."

"Really, you don't say. I'd completely forgotten that." Merlin rolls his eyes at the wall screen, but Percival can see the way his smile goes tight. "I don't suppose it ever occurred to you to, say, try _talking_ to her first – make her see why it's in her people's best interests that the package comes to us? I hear even royalty are capable of reason these days."

"My, my, such astounding wit from a man who behaves as if he has none. Just for that I'm having room service send up the best Bolly they've got…and a whole pile of cakes for the princess."

"Well don't go choking on them," Merlin says with false sweetness. "I'd hate to have to inform the citizenry that you died wasting their money on foreign fairies."

There's a snort from Arthur. A second later the white dot stops flashing, then disappears off the map. 

"Damn. Did he just…?" Merlin blinks, staring at the wall screen. Percival catches the fleeting look of sheer misery that crosses his face, then Merlin's all business once more.

"Alright, show's over people," he calls out, making shooing motions with his hands. "Back to work. Let's keep them safe out there."

The half-dozen other people in the tower – who had all, like Percival, given up pretending that they hadn't been listening in as soon as Merlin had put Arthur on speaker – drift back to their workstations. Percival hears Gwaine give a low whistle.

"I don't know why they don't just lock themselves in the break room and shag themselves silly like normal people do."

"You mean like we do?"

"Exactly. Speaking of which… How's my six, Mother Goose?"

Smiling, Percival scans the various satellite images and camera feeds on his workstation screen, looking for anyone approaching Gwaine's position from the rear.

They've always flirted, from his first day at the Citadel, but given Gwaine's reputation – which someone had taken the trouble of inking into the margins of the staff manual – Percival hadn't had much hope of anything actually coming of it. Then one night he'd walked into the break room to find Gwaine with his trousers down around his knees, a hand braced on the counter and the other stripping his cock with brutal efficiency, bare arse and thighs practically glowing in the light of the recessed spots.

Normally Percival would have backed right the fuck up or – after Gwaine caught sight of his reflection in the metal cabinets – had a laugh about it, _then_ backed right the fuck up. But there'd been something so arresting about seeing that warm, honest flesh exposed amidst HQ's concrete and steel. Word in the tower at the time was that Gwaine was about to be deployed to the Perilous Lands, and Percival had thought it a crime that a perfunctory wank was to be his only send-off. 

So instead he'd walked up behind Gwaine and taken him by the hips.

"Shouldn't leave your six exposed like that, Goshawk," he'd murmured, breathing in Gwaine's heady end-of-day scent and nosing into his silky hair. "Anyone might've had you." Then he'd flipped him round, sunk to a crouch and – Gwaine muttering "Oh _fuck_ yes" as he'd let go and reached for Percival's hair instead – worshipped his cock like it was the last one left in all of Albion. 

They've been going at it like rabbits ever since, whenever and wherever they can. There are rare times when Gwaine's in the city for more than a few weeks and they can coordinate a day off, but mostly it's pre- and post-mission, furtive couplings up against the doors and walls of HQ, stolen moments in lifts, loos, supply closets or the nearest empty room.

Percival has got very good at filing loss and damage reports, bribing the cleaning staff, and hacking the Citadel's internal CCTV feed.

"Mother Goose?" There's a tinge of worry in Gwaine's voice. Not much, but Percival likes to think he's getting good at hacking Gwaine as well, has glimpsed the complexities he hides beneath that devil-may-care exterior. 

"Sorry. You're good to go, Goshawk."

"And don't you know it, big boy," Gwaine murmurs, which does nothing to help Percival's concentration. 

It's getting a bit out of hand, the way his body responds to Gwaine's voice. He recalls the scent of his skin, the sheer need he'd seen blazing in those eyes the last time they'd been together. He flushes at the memory, glancing guiltily towards Merlin.

"I feel like we've made it worse. With Peacock and Mother Hen, I mean."

Gwaine chuckles. "You mean by giving Peacock an eyeful, reminding him what he's been missing? Man's got to be at least eighty per cent blue balls by now. I'm surprised he can still string two words together."

"No, by… Wait, what about all the women he's – "

"That's the job," Gwaine cuts in, a bit of an edge to his voice. It's an argument they've avoided largely because Percival's never pushed him on it, doesn't require anything but honesty, a clean bill of health – and Gwaine coming back alive. 

"Also," Gwaine goes on after a moment, "and for your ears only, where Peacock's concerned most of that is legend."

"How do you mean?"

"Last time we were stuck in Medical, whatever they had him on made him awfully chatty. Admitted he hasn't actually slept with anyone since surviving that mess with Nimueh. Waxed damn-near poetic about Mother Hen's 'idiotic' bravery. Also something about his ears and other...assets."

"Oh yeah?" Grinning, Percival glances over again and catches Merlin watching him with a raised eyebrow. He quickly schools his face into something more neutral and focuses back on his monitor.

Gwaine sighs. "Any other man would have joined up the dots by now, but Peacock is his father's son. Takes stubborn and repressed to new levels. Probably has himself convinced he's straight."

"Shame. I think they'd be perfect for each other – _if_ they could manage to quit bickering long enough to give it a go. Why won't anyone from Armoury green-light my idea about love darts?"

"Aw, look who's a big scary softie."

"Shut it, Goshawk. And get ready. Your mark's on the move, approaching from three o'clock."

"Fucking finally." Percival hears Gwaine checking his clip and reloading it, then a faint rustle as he breaks his cover. "You know… You might be onto something though."

"What do you mean?" Percival stares between Gwaine's steady, blinking white dot and the red dot now moving towards it – the transmitter their local contact had sewn into Jarl's coat-lining earlier that day. 

"About the pair of them needing a bit of…well, special help." Gwaine's tone has Percival on high alert.

"Oh no."

"No?" Gwaine clucks his tongue. "But I've just had a brilliant idea, which I will tell you all about…after I take out the trash."

"You are aware that your brilliant ideas are the average person's Monday-morning regrets?" Percival says, but mostly to himself, as there's the sound of running and rapid breath. 

Soon he's wrapped up in the progress of the white dot across the screen – the vicarious adrenaline of the chase, the heart-in-mouth moment when shots are fired and the seconds after, when he waits to hear Gwaine's voice telling him that the target is down, that he's safe and is ready to come back to the nest.

* * *

Merlin catches Percival watching him out of the corner of his eye as Arthur enters the pub. He forces himself not to stare, instead making a meal of the last of his pint. Not that this will fool Percival – the man's got brains to match his brawn – but it keeps Merlin from doing anything embarrassing like leaping up to check Arthur over for damage, or shouting at him for ditching his comms, or jumping on top of the table and demanding the universe explain why, why _this_ man amongst all the millions, and getting himself banned from his local. 

Were she still alive, Merlin feels his mum might have something ominous to say about the fact that he now thinks of the Rising Sun as his local, rather than any of the pubs near his own flat.

"So," Merlin says, "what was it you and Gwaine were whispering about when I got back from the loo?"

"Oh, ah – you know." Percival shrugs, thumb worrying the sodden edge of his beer mat. "Just the rugby. Camelot's chances in the Five Kingdoms tournament this year."

"Anyone ever tell you you're a terrible liar?"

Percival shakes his head, smiling. "Now you know why I prefer to keep out of the field." 

"That and the fact that, even in disguise, you tend to stick out. Now come on, tell me what you two – "

Merlin's interrupted by Gwaine plonking a trio of fresh pints on the table. "Look what the cat dragged in," he says, jerking his head over his shoulder. "Just in time to get the round, lucky me."

Arthur's behind him, hair and overcoat damp from the rain. He's carrying his own pint and a bulging handful of crisp packets. He deposits the lot on the table with a faint scowl.

"Which suddenly included a tenner's worth of crisps." He removes his overcoat and jacket – Merlin noting the slight wince and trying not to wonder what it means – and adds them to the sheaf hanging from the nearest hook. "Funny, that." 

"Last man in buys the nibbles, isn't that right boys?" Gwaine winks as he slides back in next to Percival. 

They're at one of the semi-circular booths along the back wall; they're meant for six, but given Gwaine's wide-legged sprawl Arthur's left with no option but to sit beside Merlin. Merlin shoves in a bit, nearer Percival, but there's no escaping the warmth Arthur gives off, nor the devastating scent of his cologne. He's always perfectly groomed and pressed, no matter what he's been through: bespoke grey or navy suits in the appropriate seasonal weight, ties that play up the colour of his eyes.

"Still in one piece then?" Merlin remarks, eyes firmly fixed on the pile of crisp packets. 

"More or less." 

Merlin looks at him then, forcing himself to see beyond the surface beauty and his own desire. He clocks the shadows under Arthur's eyes, the pinched set of his mouth and the raw, red scratches on his neck. They start just above his collar line. Merlin wonders how far down they go, wishes a horrible death on whoever made them.

Arthur sees him staring and shoots him a wry grin, running his forefinger around the rim of his glass. "Our fairy princess turned out to be more of a spoilt kitten, unsheathed quite the set of claws when she realised I wasn't really there to propose. Threatened to geld me, even."

Gwaine chuckles. "Did she succeed?"

Arthur takes a sip, shakes his head. "Missed all my vitals."

"Damn. So much for that plot. Next time I'll pay double." Merlin savages the pile of crisp packets until he finds the roast chicken flavour, rips it open, then dives into his new pint, heedless of Arthur's derisive snort. The thick, foamy head sloshes against his face.

He always miscalculates how much Arthur's physical presence affects him, almost prefers the worry of his departure to the one-two sucker punch of sheer want and jealous fury that accompanies his return.

"You been stuck in Medical this whole time?" Percival says.

"No. Palace, then debriefing with Kil." Arthur levels a sour expression at Gwaine. "Which is, by the way, mandatory within the first twelve hours of return. Even says so right there in the manual."

Gwaine grins, shrugs. "Can't believe everything you read in the manual, can you?" He glances at Percival, grin softening into something less cocksure and more sincere. Merlin's happy for them, he really is, but he can't help the raw, kicked-in-the-chest feeling he gets witnessing signs of their growing devotion to one another. 

"Besides," Gwaine continues, settling a palm on the back of Percival's neck and re-focusing on Arthur, "I'd much rather _debrief_ with my handler here." 

Merlin rolls his eyes. Glancing over, he catches Arthur's frown at the blatant innuendo. There's a faint flush rising on his cheeks as well, which is… Well, it's probably nothing – the ale, the warmth of the pub. He's still waiting for the scathing retort he's sure will come when Arthur leans over and snatches a few crisps from Merlin's open packet. 

"Hey!"

"These are disgusting, Merlin. Nothing like chicken – not that crisps should taste like meat in the first place."

Merlin grabs the packet off the table. "I'm sorry my taste in crisps isn't to your liking, Your Highness. I take it yours are far superior?" He's really not in the mood for their usual banter, but he doesn’t know how else to cope with the ragged knot of feelings Arthur inspires without compromising his job.

Arthur turns towards him, eyebrow lifted. "I think that goes without saying."

Merlin takes a deep breath. "Well, I think it goes without saying that _you_ – "

"But you like smoky bacon, sir," Percival cuts in. Merlin deflates, not sure whether he feels grateful or resentful for the rescue.

"Precisely," Arthur says. "What of it?"

"He means," Gwaine chimes in, "that you shouldn't be giving Merlin grief over liking meat-flavour crisps." 

"Smoky bacon's not _meat_. It's a national treasure."

Merlin can't help but laugh at this – Arthur's tone is the perfect mix of royal decree and zealous confession – whereas Gwaine just shakes his head. 

"To each his own." Gwaine glances over at Percival. He gives his neck another stroke before dropping his hand below the table to rest on what must surely be Percival's thigh, murmuring, "I happen to think this one's tongue is a national treasure." 

Merlin gapes at them. Innuendo's one thing, but this…

"What's that?" Arthur pauses with his pint halfway to his mouth, cheeks gone blotchy red. 

Merlin sees Gwaine's face transform; suddenly he's the picture of innocence – all furrowed brow and placid smile. His hand starts moving, stroking Percival's thigh.

"Beef and onion, sir. I said I happen to think beef and _onion's_ a national… Oh, I'm sorry. Is this about the other week? Are we making you uncomfortable?"

"What happened the other week?" Merlin says. While Gwaine teasing Arthur is nothing new, Merlin's never known Arthur to break out in a proper blush from it before. Plus he knows what he just heard, and it wasn't anything to do with crisps.

Arthur takes a long pull from his pint. "I don’t know what he's on about."

"Oh come on." Merlin looks around the table. "What is it? What happened?" 

"Nothing," Arthur snaps, just as Gwaine says, "He caught Percy and I shagging – his face buried in my arse, to be precise – at HQ."

"Oh my… " Merlin covers his mouth, but can’t quite stifle the hysterical laugh that wells up. "Where was – how on earth did I miss that?" It's a sad, but well-known fact that Merlin rarely leaves the Citadel before midnight, if at all.

"Budget meeting with Kil," Percival reminds him.

Merlin winces at the memory – no meeting with Kil is a good one, but the monthly budget meetings are worst of all – then lifts his pint to Percival and Gwaine. "Well, lads, I'm pleased to know I wasn't the only one getting a tongue-lashing that day. I trust the outcome was much more pleasant on your end?"

He's greeted by three shocked expressions, then Gwaine bursts out laughing. Percival ducks his head, smiling shyly into his pint. Arthur, however, keeps staring at him.

"You _knew_ they were… that they are…?"

" 'Course," Merlin mutters, peering down into his crisp packet to escape those lighthouse eyes.

"And you're fine with that?"

Merlin feels the first stirrings of real anger. "Yes, actually, but just for the record, it's not really my business, Arthur – nor yours – so long as it's not impacting their work."

"But – "

"Hear! Hear!" Gwaine cuts in, rapping his knuckles on the table. "Thank you, Merlin. You're light-years beyond our noble prince here when it comes to social issues. Thought he was going to paint the carpet with his lunch when he walked in."

Arthur slams down his pint. "You were having sex on _my_ sofa – of course I felt ill!"

"Or maybe you're just a closet homophobe," Gwaine retorts. He's leaning in, as is Arthur, the pair of them engaged in a serious flaring-nostril-and-jutting-chin-off. A few heads turn in their direction – the nearby tables are full of low-level Citadel office staff and Armoury techs – then quickly snap back when they see who it is. 

Anyone who wants to be served in the Rising Sun knows better than to recognise Arthur, whether as an agent or as Camelot's prince – the handsome, single spare who is known to prefer his "diplomatic work" and palling around with mates from his army days to opening balls and marching in parades.

Merlin waves a hand in the air between them and mimes blowing a whistle. "Peep PEEEEP! Gentlemen, please, let's not – "

Arthur quells him with a look, then locks eyes with Gwaine. "Look here, I have absolutely no problem with what consenting adults choose to do together in private... so long as it's not _in my office._ "

"In private, eh? What about two men kissing on the street, or in a pub?"

Arthur shrugs. "Fine by me."

Gwaine leans back, seemingly mollified by this response; then he trades an inscrutable glance with Percival. Merlin, remembering their earlier whispering, gets a bad, bad feeling. 

"Ever tried it?" Gwaine says.

"What?!"

"Men." Gwaine takes a leisurely sip of his ale as Arthur splutters. "I'll take that as a no. You should give it a go sometime. Might surprise yourself. Merlin, here, for example, is stronger than he looks and has – "

"Gwaine, no!" The double-bad feeling intensifies, warps into nightmarish farce. There are many reasons he'd been drawn to intelligence work, but in part he'd assumed he'd be working with others who knew the value of keeping secrets.

" – very soft lips. What? It's nothing to be ashamed of, Merlin."

Merlin slumps back in the booth, ears burning, and crams a handful of crisps into his mouth.

"And how would you know?" Arthur demands of Gwaine.

"New Yearth," Merlin mumbles through his mouthful, because it's vital that Arthur hear his side first. "He wath pithed 'n' I wath – " He breaks off before he chokes to chew and swallow.

"In the right place at the right time," Gwaine jumps in, grinning. "Don’t worry, sir, it was just a kiss. I'd always wondered, you see. How could you not, with that mouth? Didn't remember much next day, but I remember those lips. Like ripe – "

"Stop, Gwaine, that's enough." Merlin shoots an apologetic look at Percival. He doesn't dare look at Arthur.

"It's all right." Percival claps him on the shoulder. "I know exactly how he gets when he's off his face. Flirty as fuck and awfully persistent."

Arthur makes a disgusted sound. "You mean he _forced_ himself on –"

"No," Merlin cuts in, shaking his head. "It wasn't like that. Arthur, I let him. Kissed him back, even, so don't let's go there." He straightens up, places the near-empty crisp packet on the table and slurps at his ale.

"Face it, sir, in this Merlin's not as repressed as you are. He's man enough – _brave_ enough – to try something new."

Gwaine's smirking, and Merlin mentally curses him for not letting it drop.

"That's it," Arthur says, voice gone hard. Out of the corner of his eye Merlin sees him jabbing a finger on the table. "I've had it with all your tawdry insinuations, Orkney, and I'm sick to _death_ of this conversation. As far as my manhood's concerned, I don't answer to you, but if it'll get you to shut up about it… I'll kiss you right here, right now."

Merlin's as startled by Gwaine's soft laugh – not at all mocking, nor salacious – as Arthur's bizarre offer. Gwaine shakes his head, then rests it briefly against Percival's shoulder. "I'm flattered, sir, but no thanks. These days I'm more of a one-man man."

Percival clears his throat, face suffused with such quiet joy that Merlin starts to feel bad for being jealous.

Then Gwaine adds, "Why not kiss Merlin instead?" and Merlin wants to strangle the pair of them. He's not sure what to call the noises that he and Arthur first make, but they are more tortured barnyard animal than human.

"What?" Merlin finally manages. "Gwaine! No."

"Shut up, Orkney," Arthur mutters.

"Oh, go on, sir. I dare you."

"You _dare_ me?"

"Show me you're a man of your word. You won't regret it." 

Merlin feels the moment Arthur stops bristling and starts seriously considering it. It's something about the way he goes perfectly still, eyes locked on Merlin, combined with a sudden dip in the levels of available oxygen in the room.

"While I appreciate the enthusiastic review," Merlin hastens to say, "You can't bully people into kissing, and I'm not on board with this – not in the least."

"Wait, so you'll kiss him, but you won't kiss me?" It's said mildly, but Merlin can feel Arthur's gaze boring into the side of his head. He squeezes his eyes shut.

"That was different. He was drunk. I was lonely. It was a spur of the moment type of thing."

"So's this. C'mon, Merlin, just one kiss. You can even keep your eyes closed and pretend I'm the crown princess or Gwen or whatever nerd goddess from SCRYOPS serves as your current wank fantasy."

"Tempting," Merlin says drily, opening his eyes, "but it's still a firm no." Arthur would be the type to assume that the only possible reason for befriending women is to get in their knickers.

"You're refusing your _prince_? Not to mention that – technically – I outrank you."

Merlin glares at him. "Only because the bloody command structure was set up in the Dark Ages, before digital tech got... So you're _ordering_ me to kiss you, is that it?"

Arthur opens his mouth and closes it again, swallowing heavily. He looks away, scuffing a thumb down the side of his glass. "No, I… Of course not, Merlin, but I don't see what the fuss is here."

"No?"

Arthur takes a healthy swig of his pint before replying. "Isn't that what you've all just finished telling me, that it's no big deal? So why not pucker up for five seconds in aid of the greater good, then we can all get on with the drinking and attempting to enjoy ourselves like normal citizens who aren't aware, _twenty-four seven_ , of the numerous forces out there plotting murder and mayhem."

Merlin stares at him, feeling that strange dissociation and layering of time that happens when he's been running on caffeine and not much else for too many days. He's tired of this, so very tired.

"Merlin?" Arthur's peering at him, brows furrowed.

"If I ever kiss you, sir, it won't be on a bloody dare, from Gwaine or anyone else. And I certainly won't be pretending you're your sister, as I'm gay."

* * *

For the record, Percival thinks it's a terrible idea. He's told Gwaine this on three separate occasions, most recently when Merlin was in the loos. It's presumptive, intrusive and could get them in real shit with people he now counts as friends, as well as fellow agents. 

"But if it works…" Gwaine had said. This is his chief argument, along with reminding Percival that the same could be said about his hypothetical love darts.

After what Merlin's said Percival's ready to put his foot down, but Gwaine beats him to it – both literally and metaphorically. He steps on Percival's left foot and squeezes his thigh, saying, "Of course you are, mate. Arthur was only joking about the princess."

"I was?" Arthur slowly pulls his gaze from Merlin.

"Yes," Gwaine says. Going by Arthur's reaction – as sudden jerk, followed by a scowl – Percival's betting Gwaine's just kicked him under the table. "Though if I may say so, sir, it was in poor taste." 

Arthur's scowl deepens. Merlin looks between them, baffled but clearly still on edge.

"Gwaine, I don't think – " Percival begins, but Gwaine cuts him off, saying, "And you're right, kissing on a dare's a bit childish. Let's do this like real men and make it a proper bet. For everything Percy and I do, you and Merlin do the same. Whichever team calls a halt first loses."

"Mad," Merlin mutters, eyes wide. "You're barking mad." He picks up his glass and drinks half of what's left in one go.

"Loses what?" Arthur says, and that's it – if he's asking about stakes, Percival knows that Gwaine's got him.

Gwaine pretends to think about it. "You win, I take one shit mission off you – or I'll get you out of the royal event of your choice – whenever you like, no questions asked. And drinks are on me for the next six months."

Arthur's scowl softens. He eyes Gwaine speculatively, then gestures at the remaining crisp packets. "What about bar snacks?" 

Gwaine nods. "Those too."

"And if you win?"

"A week at the royal hunting lodge. And you cover for us as needed so Kil will let me and Percy take the same time off."

"Seriously? Seems to me you get more than enough of one another at HQ."

"Not _nearly_." It's said with such feeling, Percival can't help but smile. "Your sofa's grand," Gwaine continues, "but to be honest, I had no idea where we were at the time. I'd just got back from Mercia. Total shitstorm, right up until the end, yours was the first empty room, and I…"

Gwaine breaks off with a frustrated sigh. He lets go of Percival's thigh, running his hands through his hair before reaching for his pint. Percival waits until he's set it down and wiped the foam from his moustache before reaching out. Slowly, deliberately, he enfolds Gwaine's right hand in his left, up on the table where everyone can see.

"It's the job, sir," Percival says. "Sometimes sex… Well, it's a way back. To being a real person again." He squeezes Gwaine's hand, hoping Arthur will understand without him having to spell it out. Sometimes Gwaine needs to give up all control after a mission, especially if it's gone to hell – needs to get used, fucked deep and hard, forced to feel pleasure so intense he can admit that, yes, he's just a man. "And not that I'm complaining, but it'd also be nice to – "

"Shag someplace with a bed?" Gwaine quips.

"To take our time." Percival presses Gwaine's hand once more, then releases it. He gets a bit lost looking into those dark eyes, watching the worldly veneer crack, just a little, and seeing Gwaine smile, not just at him, but _for_ him.

"Fine," Arthur says, breaking the moment. He's staring down at his own hands clenched tightly on the table while Merlin glowers into the dregs of his pint. Percival catches him stealing a sidelong glance before nodding at Gwaine. "I'm in. You can even have the lodge for two weeks – the old one, at Brechfa, not that monstrosity Morgana's building in the Darkling Woods. _If_ you win. Which you won't."

"Of course he won't," Merlin says. He looks up, expression smoothing out until it's as still as pond water, eyes bright and focused on nothing. "Nobody will win, because we're not doing this."

"Come on, Merlin, don’t be precious. What's a bit of a snog when there's free ale on offer?" Arthur takes a healthy swallow of his pint, waves his other hand at the table. "And crisps! Six whole months of your beloved sacrilege of the word 'chicken.' "

"You just want to get out of the Summer Ball," Merlin says scathingly. "Or is it your sister's coronation?"

Arthur winces. "Oh god. I hadn’t been thinking that far out, but, yes. That'd be one to miss. She'll be even more insufferable once her head's encased in two kilos of gold and gems. See, this is why you _have_ to say yes."

Merlin huffs, looking to Percival. "A little help here?"

"Sir, maybe you should try asking nicely? Make it a bit less…mercenary."

"That's not what I meant," Merlin mutters, but from the moment Arthur angles his body towards him, face gone all painfully earnest, Percival knows that Merlin's in, too. 

Arthur swallows heavily. He slides a hand across the table until the tip of his forefinger's just brushing Merlin's wrist. "Please? Merlin, believe me, if it were anyone else, I wouldn't… We make a decent team, yeah?"

Merlin sighs. Then he jerks his hand away, crossing his arms over his chest. "Fine, whatever. But I want the same deal."

Arthur's expression is comical. "What? Why? You don’t even hunt."

"Not the lodge, you great bully, the vacation time. Two weeks off, whenever I want."

"But you never take vacation!"

"What, afraid you'll cock up without me to guide you?"

"Yes. No! It's just – " Agitated, Arthur runs a hand through his hair. "I'm used to you, is all. Having George on comms is like being minded by a wooden post with a degree in royal arse-kissing…and he never allows me to take out experimental tech."

Merlin's smile is nowhere near full-strength, but it's there, and it lights up his eyes. He uncrosses his arms and shifts his body to mirror Arthur's. "Well, who knows – perhaps if you're a good enough kisser I'll ask you to come on holiday with me."

"That's the spirit," Gwaine says, slapping the table as Arthur breathes out a startled, "Huh?"

Percival laughs, amused at the pair of them, but also relieved that Merlin's in it with a smile and his best for-Arthur-only brand of sass. Merlin can be hard to read at times, and Percival's worst fear was that he'd simply shut down at the suggestion, walk out and disappear into Armoury's tech labs for days like he did when they'd lost Owain and Pellinore.

"Well?" Merlin says. "Do we have a deal?" He glances around the table, ending with his gaze fixed on Arthur.

" _One_ week off," Arthur says. "And yes." It comes out low and aggressive, but Percival sees that his eyes have locked on Merlin's mouth – that it's not anger, but hunger. It sends a flood of warmth to his groin, and he shifts on the padded seat, spreading his legs. 

He has no doubt now that the attraction is there, just as Gwaine claims. It eases his conscience, but he wonders if Arthur's truly ready for what's coming next. Some kisses, he knows, are just kisses, but others are a trip-wire, the start of a headlong tumble into the unknown.

"Well," Arthur says, still staring at Merlin's mouth. "What first?"

* * *

Merlin tells himself that he can do this. He can, and he will, and he'll not cry about it after like some heart-broken tween. No matter the real reasons behind Arthur's sudden desire to cater to Gwaine's insanity – some blend of machismo and idle curiosity, he suspects, plus an ongoing rivalry from their military academy days and a genuine loathing for family functions – Merlin's determined not to hold back. 

He may never find the words to tell Arthur what he feels for him, nor how maddening it is having to listen to him fight, flirt, and fuck his way across countless kingdoms filled with people who'd prefer him wed or dead. But he can be honest in this. 

So if Arthur wants a kiss, Merlin will make sure it's one he remembers. And if Arthur wants to play sex chicken, then by god Merlin is going to be the sexiest damn chicken in the kingdom! 

Not that this makes any sort of sense, of course, but what possibly could when Arthur's staring at his mouth like it belongs to him and he's determined to have it back?

"Touch him," Gwaine says. "Like this."

Arthur blinks. "What?" Jerking back, he looks over at Gwaine, and Merlin thrills to the realisation that he'd been leaning in.

" _Touch_ him. On his thigh, like so."

Merlin assumes there's some sort of above-table demonstration going on, but he can't take his eyes off Arthur, who's gone from looking like something out of one of Merlin's wank fantasies to thoroughly rattled.

"I thought you wanted me to kiss him?" 

"All in good time." Gwaine says. Then, in a tone that reeks of in-joke, "Better five minutes of warm-up than three weeks on the bench, right?" 

Arthur snorts, cracking half a smile. Without looking at Merlin he fumbles a hand onto his thigh, giving it a brisk rub and a pat.

"Done."

Gwaine groans. "You're not being timed. The point is to actually touch, feel – let him know you want him."

"Be a tease, you mean?"

"It's more of a… um, an invitation," Percival says, picking his way through a series of slow breaths that tells Merlin exactly what's going on beneath the table. "A sign. Believe me, sir, there's a difference between having your berries tickled in a scrum and a bloke being keen."

"Percival!" Arthur sounds less shocked than as if he's about to laugh. 

Merlin closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens them again Arthur's peering at him, hand hovering over his thigh. "Here," he says, and pulls Arthur's hand down onto his leg, just above the knee. "He means do it like what you _really_ want is to touch my cock, but daddy's watching and you don't dare."

There's a moment where neither of them move, and Merlin thinks he's about to get punched. Then Arthur's gripping his thigh, kneading it on the way up and Merlin's caught between the vanity of wanting to flex and push into that broad palm, and the instinct to go lax, to spread his thighs, inviting Arthur to…

It's over all too soon. Merlin's left aroused and confused, hands pressed to the sticky leather while Arthur turns away to drain the last of his pint.

"See? Stronger than he looks, am I right?" Gwaine says. Merlin glares at him.

"Get on with it," Arthur growls.

"Here." Percival nudges Merlin's arm to get his attention, then leans over to peck Gwaine on each cheek. 

Merlin hears Arthur blow out a frustrated breath. "What, are we Frankish schoolgirls now?"

Purely for spite, Merlin lowers his eyelids and looks up through his lashes as they square off. He leans in, bracing himself for a heady, up-close hit of Arthur's cologne. His skin is softer, smoother than Merlin's expecting at this hour, and a bit damp. He kisses his right cheek first, then his left, lingering far longer than any schoolgirl ought. 

Arthur's breathing stutters, then seems to stop altogether. Startled, Merlin pulls back to see that – yes – Arthur is holding his breath. His eyes are wide open, his thumping pulse just visible along his collar line, running deeper than Sophia's marks.

Merlin looks at Gwaine and lifts an eyebrow. He gets a nod and encouraging smile in return, which he assumes means they've aced the warm-up and are moving on to the main event. He's therefore surprised when Gwaine lifts Percival's left hand, slowly bending it at the wrist so that the palm's facing him. He presses a firm, worshipful kiss to the centre, his eyes on Percival the whole while. He repeats the same actions with Percival's right hand – kissing the fingertips this time, as it's all he can reach.

The sight delivers another bruising thump to Merlin's chest. While he's always half-fancied Gwaine – because hell, who wouldn't? – and has witnessed countless demonstrations of his charm, he's never seen him so fucking invested in someone, attuned in a way that's not overbearing, but genuinely open.

"You've got to be kidding," Arthur mutters.

"Problem?" Percival says, lifting his brows.

"I don't even know where his hands have _been_ … apart from all over a vile bunch of crisps."

Gwaine finally looks over, lips curling in a soft smirk. "You out then?"

"No."

"Oh for pity's sake," Merlin says, shoving his left hand toward Arthur's face just as Arthur reaches tentatively for his right. There's a spark of amusement in Arthur's eyes. Before it can become full-on laughter, Merlin adds a prim, "Haven't got all night, sir."

The spark fades. Arthur grabs both of Merlin's wrists – Merlin gasping as his cock leaps to attention – and brings them together up in front of his face. He presses a quick, dry kiss to the back of each one, then drops them.

"That's not exactly – " Gwaine begins, but Arthur interrupts him.

"His palms are all clammy."

"So's your face," Merlin mutters, pulling his hands back into his lap. He furtively strokes the places where Arthur's lips touched him, wanting his skin to remember.

Arthur slaps a hand on the table. "Next!"

Gwaine looks set on arguing, but Percival reels him in, until Gwaine's practically sitting in his lap. He lowers his face alongside Gwaine's neck and breathes in slowly, visibly sniffing at him, eyes closed, face going lax with pleasure, before sucking a hard, open-mouthed kiss beside his Adam's apple. Mouth open, Gwaine arches into the touch. 

Merlin shifts on the padded bench to try and alleviate the situation in his trousers, but it's no good; they're too tight and his cock's mashed at an awkward angle. Then the reality of what he has to do – deliberately smelling Arthur, tasting his skin, claiming his neck as if he has that right – sinks in, and he welcomes the discomfort. 

"Um," he says as Arthur shifts closer. Their thighs touch, and he digs his nails into his palms in an effort to focus. He twists his upper body to the right as far as it will go, their shoulders bumping awkwardly. His gaze lands on the raw, red marks on Arthur's neck. "The scratches. I don’t want to – "

"Right, no," Arthur says gruffly. "Wait." He loosens his tie and flicks open his collar button in a series of fluid movements, then braces himself with one arm on the table and the other jammed on the seat between them. He leans in, angling his head so the right side of his neck is exposed and his forehead's nearly resting on Merlin's shoulder.

This close, Merlin can see the brown and gold amidst the pale yellow of his hair, can smell, not just Arthur's cologne, but his skin – traces of a mild herbal lotion; the warm, yeasty scent of scalp beneath the faded spice of his shampoo. A sound escapes along with Merlin's next exhale, something between a sigh and a hum. Arthur tenses as the breath hits his skin, and Merlin can't help himself. Instead of just sniffing, he nuzzles Arthur's neck, running his nose and lips along the prominent tendon.

"I'm surprised she didn’t mark this side as well," he murmurs. "I thought fairies liked symmetry." He feels Arthur's shudder, skin pulled taut beneath his lips, then the rumbling vibrations of his reply.

"Made sure she didn’t get the chance. What are you – "

"Pity," Merlin says, sneaking a taste with the tip of his tongue before pressing his open mouth to Arthur's neck. He doesn’t dare use as much force as Percival had, but he adds a bit of gentle suction and, as before, he lingers…

As before, it's Arthur who ends it. He pulls away, muttering something under his breath and fussing with his tie. Forgetting himself, Merlin sighs at the loss, and Arthur's head jerks up. Their eyes meet for a hot, agitated moment, Arthur far too near and Merlin far too gone on just this one small, maddening taste of him to put up any sort of façade.

Merlin waits for the scowl of recognition, the embarrassment, the subtle shifting away now that Arthur's realised how desperately Merlin wants him. Surely now, he thinks, Arthur will do the decent thing and call a halt to the game.

But all he does is blink before slowly looking away. He clears his throat, licks his lips, nods his chin at Gwaine.

"Are we done fannying about, or will I be kissing his bloody elbows next?"

Gwaine smiles. "Kinky. Knew you had it in you, sir. Are you in a hurry to get somewhere in particular… below the beltline, perhaps?"

"That's _not_ what I – "

"On the mouth then," Gwaine cuts in. He lays a kiss on Percival's lips – brief, chaste.

Arthur nods. "Right." He turns back towards Merlin and, grabbing a handful of his scarf, hauls him in. He pauses before their lips meet, however, gaze hovering in the region of Merlin's mouth and chin.

"It's fine, sir," Merlin whispers, unclear whether he's lying more for Arthur's benefit or his own. "Go ahead. No big deal, as you said."

It's no more than a peck on the lips, the sort of straightforward, innocent, kiss-it-better type of thing Merlin remembers from school. The effect, however, is anything but.

Merlin feels wide awake. It's not the ersatz high of energy drinks or a tea-fuelled marathon session on the comms. It's more complete than that, and simpler, too. He's aware of where they are touching and where they are not, aware of Arthur's scent but no longer drugged by it. He sees the hand still clutching his scarf for exactly what it is, a tool – a weapon – yet finds it beautiful, still.

"And now the real thing," Gwaine murmurs. 

Out of the corner of his eye Merlin's aware of Percival and Gwaine's mouths coming together in a fierce crush of lips. One of them makes a noise low in his throat. A shout goes up from one of the nearby tables – whistles, good-natured catcalls of, "Get a room, boys!" and "Get in there, sir!"

"Arthur." Merlin says it slowly, calmly, touching the back of Arthur's hand. "We'll be seen. Are you sure you – "

"Yes," Arthur says, still staring at Merlin's lips. "Can't back out now."

"Can't we?"

The skin between Arthur's eyebrows puckers. His gaze flicks up, searching. "Do you really want to stop?"

"Not really, no. But – "

"Good." Arthur gives his scarf a tug. "Now shut up and let me – "

The booth, along with the rest of the pub, is suddenly filled with the cacophony of mobiles buzzing, strumming, chirping, croaking, chiming, and blaring bits of pop songs. 

"What the fuck?" Gwaine says.

Percival's phone is on the table, so he sees the text first. Watching his face, Merlin doesn't bother fishing out his own, as he can guess what the message says: Ring your mum. 

Otherwise known as: Bad shit's going down, so get your arses back to HQ. 

Merlin hears Arthur swear under his breath as he releases Merlin's scarf. He jolts into action, sliding out from the booth, grabbing the sheaf of coats and jackets off the hook, and distributing them in a rapid-fire toss.

"To be continued?" Gwaine says as he catches his. 

"You'd better believe it." Arthur's tone is grim, but Merlin catches the hint of a smile when their eyes meet over his ratty windcheater. "So whatever's happening out there, I expect you all to pull through. I refuse to lose a bet just because some arsehole fancies himself the next Tauren or Cornelius Sigan."

* * *

The arsehole in question turns out to be a herself, some bastard sister or cousin of Arthur and Morgana's who's been after creating a loyal army of the undead – or at least the chemically altered beyond all humanity – with which to invade Camelot. It's a two-week infiltration and sabotage mission, followed by three days of all-out fighting in a remote valley in Escetia and a further week of mop-up.

Percival survives on adrenaline, the foul-tasting protein shakes Gaius whips up in Medical, and the knowledge that Gwaine hates losing a bet as much as Arthur – that the pair of them will do everything in their power to watch one another's backs in the field for the chance of one-upping one another upon their return.

Merlin survives on sugar, caffeine and, if Percival had to guess, the thought of that aborted kiss. He and Arthur still go at it like a pair of spitting tomcats over the comms, but from what Percival hears, the bickering seems much warmer, full of potential double meanings and punctuated on Merlin's end by furious blushes and half-smiles that he tries to hide in his scarf or oversized mug of caffeine-du-heure. 

When the mission's done and dusted, Percival almost expects to find Arthur scaling the tower walls or swooping in on a hang glider to carry Merlin off into the sunset. 

Instead, after being forced to spend several days putting in official face time with the media and his family – part of an effort to distract from rumours of ill health or a rift amongst Camelot's royals – Arthur turns up in his usual manner. 

He strolls into one of the sub-basement CCTV shots early one morning, as if out of thin air. He's in a dapper three-piece suit, hands thrust into his pockets. Percival tracks him to Kil's office, then the Armoury. All of this is perfectly normal after a mission; however, instead of continuing on to the fitness centre or firing range, Arthur heads to the top-level-security-clearance-only lift that leads directly to the tower.

He strides into the live ops room a few minutes later, pausing by Merlin's usual workstation. "Where's Mother Hen?" 

"Crashed out in some nook or cranny, I expect. Unless he actually managed to drag himself back to his flat last night."

Arthur snorts. "Typical."

Percival moves nearer, lowering his voice so the others can't hear. "Sir, I think it's the first proper rest he's had since you left. Even when Kil forced him to hand the comms over, he stayed to help out wherever they'd let him. Drove Gwen and the Armoury techs spare."

Arthur scowls, but Percival can see the worry in his eyes as he glances at the darkened monitor, the too-tidy inbox and supply trays. The cleaners have spirited away all evidence of Merlin's vigil. He trails his fingers along the slick grey work surface.

"Yes, well, when he comes in, tell him I want to see him in my office straight away."

"Will do." Percival can’t suppress a grin. The nod and almost-smile he gets in return embolden him to reach out and clap Arthur on the shoulder. "Welcome back, sir... And thank you, for Goshawk. For having his back out there, I mean."

Arthur's expression wavers, softening for a moment before settling into its usual stern lines. "I could say the same to you," he says. "Don't short-change yourself, Percival."

He's halfway out the door when he pauses, looking back over his shoulder. "Oh, and tell him I haven't forgot. He should keep his eye on his CryptDrop account."

* * *

Merlin pauses just inside the door, staring. Given what Arthur's been through – and how crap Merlin still feels, even after a solid night's sleep – it's unfair how good he looks. He's in two pieces of a posh grey three-piece, the jacket of which is draped on a valet stand near the window. His tie is blue, his shirt white, his face a glowing tan from hanging about on Escetia's mountain slopes and, just yesterday, riding through Willowdale Park in his sister's carriage. 

Not that Merlin surreptitiously watches any and all news footage concerning the royal family when Arthur's with them.

Merlin clears his throat. "Still alive then? Or should I say, not undead?"

"Come in, Merlin. Shut the door."

"You know, in all the time we've worked together, I don' think you've ever asked me into your – "

"The _door,_ Merlin." Arthur removes something from a slim black case on his desk and stands.

"Um, are those…?" Merlin closes the door. "Since when do you wear eyeglasses?"

Arthur adjusts the frames and fiddles with something on one of the earpieces as he steps out from behind the desk and walks towards Merlin. "Since I borrowed the Armoury's latest VidSpecs prototype…and since I'm going to kiss you now, provided you don’t do something silly like faint."

"What? You can't expect me to just – "

But, as it happens, Arthur _can,_ and Merlin lets him.

Arthur backs him against the door, pinning him with one hand on his shoulder and the other fisted in his scarf, just as he'd done in the Rising Sun.

"If it were up to me," Arthur says, eyes roving over Merlin's chest and face, "you'd be banned from wearing these hideous things. You're an agent of the Crown, not a starving artist."

"Tell your father to release funds for an HVAC upgrade, then," Merlin retorts. "And tell the sun to shine hotter, while you're at it."

"I swear, the things that come out of your mouth sometimes…" Arthur chuckles, shaking his head. "Come on, pucker up. Let's give those smug bastards a proper show."

Merlin's thinking that this isn’t quite how he'd envisioned this going down – and that he's probably going to have to answer to Gwen for Arthur walking off with the VidSpecs without filing the appropriate paperwork – then Arthur's nuzzling his lips, tasting them before claiming them with a firm, searing kiss, and Merlin finds he can't be arsed about anything other than Arthur's bold hands, heady scent and positively wicked tongue.

* * *

Percival's just talked Elyan through defusing a bomb in a Druid orphanage and is working on the report when Gwaine activates his emergency distress beacon. According to the beacon's GIS and Gwaine's security card swipe data, he's in the Citadel sauna…and has been so for the past twenty minutes. 

Sighing, Percival suppresses the system-wide alert, logs it as a glitch, and reaches for his mobile. 

"You do know that's for _actual_ emergencies, not you running low on beer or hot-enough rocks?" 

"Get somewhere eyes-off and check your CryptDrop."

"Of course, sir. A dozen _fresh_ ones. Copy that," Percival says loudly as he ends the call, rolling his eyes for the benefit of the others in the tower. He hands off to Gilli, promising everyone he'll bring back extras. He doubts any of them actually buy that Kil sends him on pastry runs, but they don't ask questions so long as he cuts them in on the spoils.

When he's secured the back booth at Cake Time he logs into his CryptDrop and slips his earbuds in. He's on his third re-watch of the video before he remembers to ring Gwaine back.

"Sorry, got distracted. That is – "

"Fucking _hot._ "

"Yeah." Percival taps to restart the video again and freezes on the moment just after Arthur's pushed Merlin up against the door. "Can't believe Gwen let him try the new VidSpecs."

" _I_ can't believe he named the file 'Surrender Dorothy.' Cocky shit. As if we'd back down from a bit of snogging."

"More than a bit, I'd say." Percival taps to let the video continue playing. The old VidSpecs were simply a wearable camera, recording the general line of sight; the new ones respond to the wearer's own eye movements. It's this, in part, that makes the video so erotically charged, capturing the thorough, appreciative sweep of Arthur's gaze in contrast to his brusque words and the way his eyes linger, not just on Merlin's plush mouth, but his chest and neck, his pinked-up ears and unruly hair. 

Arthur obviously has a bit of a thing for the sight of his own hands on Merlin as well, and Percival can’t blame him. There's something about watching the strong fingers crease the smooth planes of Merlin's shirt and possessively grip his scarf – only to rid him of it moments later, unpicking the snarl of fabric and stroking the pale throat below. 

Then there are the sounds they make, not porn star moans but little eager grunts and hums, Merlin's breathless "Arthur, Arth– " that disappears into another of his surging kisses.

Percival sighs. "Wish we could see where Mother Hen's got his hands."

Gwaine chuckles. "I know where mine would be. They should hang a portrait of that arse in the – oh _christ._ How did I miss that?" 

"What?" Percival hears faint rustling noises, Gwaine's breathing loud and up close. He gives an appreciative hum. 

"Back it up to one forty-seven – no, one forty-five. Keep your eyes on the bottom of the frame."

Percival does so, immediately spotting what's caught Gwaine's attention. Once the kissing's begun in earnest, for the most part Arthur keeps his focus on Merlin's face and neck, even when he pulls back for a breath or to shift the angle of his approach. But there's a moment when he glances down between them and…

Percival backs up the video again and pauses it, peering at the screen. "Shit," he breathes, mouth instinctively watering. "He's so – "

"Thick," Gwaine murmurs, then gives a soft groan. "Oh, Peacock, how did you keep that thing under wraps at the academy?"

Percival swallows, glancing around the bakery to be sure no one's listening in. "Hard's what I was going to say. Got to be agony in that suit."

"That's why I don’t go in for all that posh tailoring. Serves him right, though. Mother Hen looks fucking edible like that. Bet he thought he was immune to it and freaked out when his cock begged to differ."

"Unless it's on purpose – him looking down, I mean. Maybe he wanted us to see. Part of the challenge, like."

Gwaine gives another groan, this one louder. "God I love how your mind works, have I ever told you that? How soon can you get back to HQ? We can't let this stand…plus I'm hard as fucking nails in here." 

"Depends," Percival says, grinning. "Ten minutes minimum, but more like twenty if you want a fresh apple tart. There's a bit of a queue on at the moment."

Gwaine swears under his breath. "I'll show you who's an apple tart," he grumbles, but a moment later he adds, "Yes, all right. Actually, make it thirty. I need to go borrow some tech."

* * *

Merlin's expecting a swift response to the video. He tells himself that it's nothing to do with hope – nothing to do with being desperate for another excuse to feel Arthur's hands and mouth on him. Certainly not. It's just that Gwaine's never been known for his patience, and Merlin would swear, based on the looks he's been getting from the pair of them, that they've already plotted their next move. 

Yet day after day goes by with nothing but the usual pleasantries and banter exchanged. Gwaine's sent up to the Northern Plains to collect intel on a suspect mining operation; Arthur heads off for a treaty signing in Gawant with members of the Royal Council. 

The latter's not an official SIS mission, but Merlin signs off on the earpiece and transmitter anyway, Arthur claiming that there's something off about Princess Elena that may bear investigating. Merlin knows better.

"You just like having an audience for your ridiculous flirting, and someone to bitch to when you get bored."

"Perhaps I enjoy your bolshie sass in my ear," Arthur murmurs, fingertips lingering on Merlin's wrist and palm as he swipes the tech from his hand. With his other hand he flicks at Merlin's scarf, then adds, "Well at least the colour suits you."

Merlin's left wondering if he's missed something; Arthur had refused to let him watch the VidSpecs footage, after all, so perhaps he and Gwaine have been in touch without Merlin's knowledge. Perhaps, he thinks, they've already moved on to the next challenge, as that's the only rational explanation for why Arthur's flirting with _him_ in front of everyone in the live ops room.

He winds up discovering, just shy of midnight, that he's fucked up a slew of paperwork with his head in the clouds.

"Fuck my life," he mutters, then shouts across the room. He's largely ignored, though Percival sends him a sympathetic glance and George scurries out, returning a few minutes later with a steaming cup of tea and a packet of biscuits, which he leaves near – but not on – Merlin's workstation with a brisk nod.

It's approaching oh-three-hundred and the room's nearly empty when, in the midst of redoing a budget report, Merlin's monitor goes black, then blossoms with an image of Gwaine's smug, smiling face. A text box across his forehead reads: NICE TRY BUT…

Merlin scrambles to plug in a set of earbuds, glancing around to ascertain that his is the only workstation being hacked. Nothing happens for several minutes, during which he's forced to listen to an obnoxious cover of "Let's Get It On". Then the words in the text box fade to be replaced by: YOUR NEXT MISSION, SHOULD YOU CHOOSE TO ACCEPT IT!

The text and Gwaine's face disappear to be replaced by a video. Merlin recognises the setting instantly – one of the Citadel's sauna rooms – but it takes him a moment to figure out what else he's seeing because of the high camera angle. They're kneeling on the sauna bench, facing one another. Gwaine's clearly going commando beneath his gym shorts, while Percival's fully clothed until…

Merlin fumbles for his standing stool and perches on it, no longer trusting his legs to hold him. Such simple, everyday gestures – untying a tie, unbuttoning a shirt – yet Gwaine manages to make them look like an act of worship. The fact that he's obscenely tenting his shorts might seem ridiculous, but to Merlin it only underscores the devotion. For him to take such exquisite care with each button, each cufflink, to keep his hips so still when he must be dying to be touched is incredibly arousing.

By the time Gwaine peels back the sweat-soaked fabric to reveal Percival's broad chest, Merlin's squirming on the stool. There's an agonising moment where Gwaine just looks… Then he places his palms on Percival's skin. 

Merlin exhales as Gwaine's hands travel downwards, mapping the contours of each muscle, bites his lip when Gwaine leans in and places a kiss just above Percival's heart. It feels almost wrong to watch, even though he knows he's meant to.

The video ends with Percival lifting a hand and running it through Gwaine's hair, gently finger-combing it, tucking errant locks back behind his ears.

Merlin stares dumbly at his monitor long after the video's ended and his budget spreadsheet has reappeared. George sends him several searching looks, but says nothing. It's not until Arthur activates his comms that Merlin rouses himself and stands, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"Peacock to Mother Hen. Peacock to – "

"Give up," Merlin says in lieu of the usual confirmation. "Please. You can blame it entirely on me, alright? Say I'm a big nelly chicken." There's a lengthy pause, during which Merlin hears Arthur swallow. 

"Ah, you've seen it then."

"Oh yes. Hacked my workstation."

"Got me on my smart watch," Arthur says, giving a faint snort. "Lot of fuss over nothing though, yeah? Why do you want to give up now? I'd say we've got them running scared."

"Nothing? You thought that was… " Merlin takes a deep breath and counts to five before releasing it. "Were we even watching the same video?"

"Shirt off, touch chest, touch hair." Arthur rattles the words off like he's making a checklist. "Surely we can manage that? I've had worse from blokes in Medical."

"But –"

"Hang on, someone's coming."

Merlin hears the clack of heels and a tuneless humming. "Where _are_ you anyway?"

"Hiding in the kitchen," Arthur whispers. "It's Princess Elena. Hardly touched her food at dinner. I think she's – "

There's a racket of cupboards being opened and shut, then the humming gives way to a delighted, "Aha! _That's_ where she's hidden you, my ickle yum-yums. Come to Ellie. Yes, that's it. Best not to struggle."

"Peacock? Are you compromised?"

"Hush. No. She's got… Oh that is revolting. She's just swallowed a live frog! I told you there was something off about her – and our families were suggesting that we _breed_ someday. Hang on, give me a sec; I'll upload the video."

With a long-suffering sigh, Merlin minimises the budget spreadsheet and waves to get George's attention. If Arthur doesn't see it, he's not sure how to explain that they can't possibly win this bet, as Percival and Gwaine are an _actual_ couple. Their feelings for one another are plain in every look, every touch, and they've already done things together that Arthur may never be willing to do – and certainly not with Merlin. 

"Peacock, something's come up. I've got to hand you off to Baby Duck."

"What, why? I – "

"Good luck with your Changeling. I'll see you when you're back in the nest."

Merlin heads down to the pool and swims laps until his muscles feel like lead. Normally he'd use the sauna after, but tonight he can't face it. He showers, then lets himself into the Armoury, where Gwen's empty office and sofa are waiting.

Arthur had missed something, Merlin realises as he settles in. In his rundown of their new mission, he'd forgot the bit about Gwaine kissing Percival's chest. As he drifts off to sleep, Merlin idly strokes his own chest, wondering what it would feel like to have Arthur's lips pressed just here, above his heart.

* * *

Percival's not at all surprised when Arthur starts haunting the live ops and tower break rooms after returning from Gawant. At first the other agents and junior staff are on edge, unsure why he's lurking in their common spaces when he never has before. But, as they are all trained intelligence officers – and more importantly, have eyes in their heads – they soon figure it out. 

Merlin's the only one who seems utterly oblivious. He looks bewildered to find the break room stocked with roast chicken flavour crisps and his favourite builder's tea and frowns whenever Arthur appears near his workstation.

"Forget your password?" he'll say, or, "Something wrong with your tech?"

Arthur always has a suave smile and some shite about needing to stretch his legs or preferring the personal touch, but there's a pained look in his eyes. After a week the charm dissolves, and they're back to their usual sniping, except now it's happening in the flesh and has expanded in scope to include rude hand gestures, projectile snack foods, and mangled office supplies.

"Goshawk, we have a problem," Percival says next time Gwaine checks in from the Northern Plains.

It's a Friday night. Merlin's handed off to George an hour early; through the glass doors Percival can see him peering left and right before hurrying for the lifts. "I don't know what happened, but Mother Hen – "

He breaks off as Arthur suddenly appears, striding out of the break room with a grim smile and a large cup in his hand. Merlin spots him and starts furiously jabbing at the buttons, but Arthur's too quick, slipping into the lift just before the doors start to close.

"Holy shit," Percival says, grinning. "I think Peacock's making his move. Got your tablet handy?" He quickly pulls up the CCTV feeds for all the lifts and isolates the one carrying Arthur and Merlin.

"Yep."

"Log in through the SafeNest portal. They're in the lift. I'll give you the link for the live feed."

Gwaine chuckles. "Oh, I can already tell this is going to be good."

There's no sound, of course, but Percival doesn't really need it to see that there's a heated argument going on. Merlin's in his battle stance and seems to be doing more of the talking. Arthur's blocking the control panel, periodically gesticulating with the hand not holding the cup. Merlin suddenly lunges, making a play for the panel. Arthur slams his hand back on the emergency stop button, bringing the lift to a juddering halt, and upends the cup's contents all down Merlin's shirt.

"Shit!" Percival says. He can't see Merlin's expression, as his back is to the camera, but he can read the man's initial shock, then confusion, by the way he moves. As the alarm blares to life, Arthur tosses the cup to the floor of the lift and, in one stride, takes Merlin by the shoulders. 

"Quick, kill the bells," Gwaine says, even as Percival's busy doing just that.

It's tense at first, but after the alarm stops Arthur leans in, speaking close to one ear, and Merlin visibly relaxes into the embrace. He lets Arthur turn him so the camera has them in profile, even laughs at something that's been said. Then he gives a nod and holds his arms out to the sides.

Arthur makes short work of Merlin's tie – also tossed onto the floor – and shirt buttons, and dramatically parts the wet panels. They look up at the camera for a moment, grinning, then strike a pose like something off a romance novel cover; Arthur with an arm slipped round Merlin's waist to support him in a partial swoon, and his other hand placed possessively on one bared pec.

"Oi! Are they making fun of us?" 

"Cheeky bastards," Gwaine says, but he sounds more amused than offended. They both laugh outright when Arthur tweaks Merlin's nipple and gets his wrist slapped. Merlin then straightens up, holding his hands over his pecs, doing a camp impersonation of a coy maiden that has Arthur shaking his head, then giving in and laughing, shoulders heaving and head thrown back.

"Whoa," Percival says, unconsciously leaning closer to his monitor. He doesn’t think he's ever seen Arthur so carefree. "Stupid-happy looks good on him. He should wear it more often."

"That's the general plan," Gwaine says. "I'm thinking a regular dose of Mother Hen will cure all his ills."

"If they don't destroy the tower in the meantime." Onscreen, the horseplay continues. Merlin advances on Arthur, running his hands slowly up and down his own torso, pouting as he cups his pecs and strikes model poses. "We try and get them to bare their souls and what do we get? A whole week of sniping at one another and now they're dicking us about." 

"Exactly," Gwaine says happily. "United against a common enemy. Not in the original plan, but definitely a step in the right direction."

"I'm not sure that's… " Percival loses his train of thought as Arthur reaches out, grabbing Merlin's wrists. They both go still, eyeing one another up almost shyly given what they've been getting up to. There's a brief exchange of words, then Arthur pulls Merlin's left hand up and away, ducking under it to kiss his chest. 

It happens so fast Percival thinks he might have imagined it, save for Merlin's reaction. He arches subtly into the touch, chin lifted, lips parted. He pulls his other hand free, plunges it into Arthur's hair, and guides his head back towards his left pec.

Arthur doesn't hesitate. He surges forward, manoeuvring them up against the wall of the lift, butting his head into Merlin's hand. He kisses Merlin's chest passionately this time, tearing his shirt off his left shoulder and kissing that as well before nosing his way back down to Merlin's nipple. He tweaks it again, then licks it before sucking it into his mouth hard enough to make Merlin stagger off the wall. 

Merlin's head falls back, lolling to the side, expression one of sheer ecstasy. Then his eyes blink open and his gaze falls on the camera. He frowns.

"No, no," Gwaine murmurs. "Don’t mind us, lad. You've got him right where you want him."

But Percival can see that Merlin's already shutting down, fingers going still as he says something, then gently pushes Arthur away. Saddened, he looks away from his monitor. 

"Don’t think he wants their first time to be like this. Can't blame him either."

Gwaine sighs. "No, you're right. But they're..."

"Amazing together?" By the time Percival looks back at the feed the lift is moving again. They're standing with their backs to the camera, Arthur with his head bowed and Merlin looking off to the side, shirtless now, clutching his sodden shirt and tie. 

"Yeah. Not to mention amazingly hot. When it happens for real, we've _got_ to be there. In the flesh, like at the pub."

Percival clucks his tongue, shaking his head as Merlin gets off at the pool and fitness centre level. "All the free beer and crisps in the world's not convincing them to shag in the pub, mate."

"No, not in the pub, but… Did you see that email Mum sent round about refresher training opportunities?"

"Skimmed it, yeah. What's that got to do with – shit." 

Out of nowhere, Arthur's slammed a fist against the lift doors. He does it again with both fists, then turns and lashes out with his foot, sending the discarded cup bouncing off the far wall with a vicious kick. 

Then, as if someone's flipped a switch, he calmly runs a hand through his hair, smoothes down his tie and shoots his cuffs before retrieving the cup. He stands stock still in the middle of the lift until it bottoms out at Sub-Basement 4 and exits without a backward glance.

"Oh, my poor Peacock," Gwaine murmurs. "That's not good."

"No," Percival agrees. "So, come on, brilliant or no, out with it – what are you thinking?"

"If I can fix it with Mum, how would you and Mother Hen feel about getting back out in the field for a couple of days?"

*** * * ***

**May**

Merlin's just finished weighing down the corners of the tent with more stones when Arthur strolls back into their camp looking windswept, unfairly gorgeous in tactical coveralls, and ridiculously pleased with himself. Merlin spies a brace of hares in one hand and at least twice that of fish in the other. He'd insisted, of course, despite the fact that they'd brought rations.

"Did you forget the pegs, Merlin?"

Merlin stares. "No. Did it slip your notice that the ground's practically frozen?"

"That's no excuse."

Merlin bares his teeth, picks up a rock, and mimes throwing it at Arthur's head. 

Arthur ducks, laughing. "Careful, or I'll have you done for treason."

"I'll have _you_ done for poaching."

"You do recall that I'm the prince? I don’t think it's possible for me to poach so long as we're still in the kingdom."

"Yes, but these are the people's lands, held in trust, and you don’t have a permit."

"For fuck's sake, stop!" Gwaine cries. "I swear, you're worse than my sister's kids."

"But – " Merlin begins.

"No. Percy and I have had enough, and so has everyone else. Either forfeit the bet right now and get off _whomever's_ bloody mountain this is, or shut up – at least until after we've eaten."

Arthur snorts, but hands the fish off to Percival and settles in to finish cleaning his game without another glance at Merlin. 

Gwaine holds Merlin's gaze until he slowly sets down his rock and mimes zipping his lip.

"Right then." Gwaine fishes out a pot and a packet of dehydrated something-or-other. "Merlin, could you toss me a water bag?"

Merlin does. Then, in a fit of inspiration, he collects the unused metal tent pegs and sets them between Arthur and Percival. "Voilà! Skewers." 

Arthur looks up, surprise morphing into an expression that does more to warm Merlin than any of his thermal layers. "Good idea," he says, then, "Thank you, Merlin."

Merlin's starving, but for a moment he wishes they could skip supper and get to the afters. In the tent. Just the four of them and this insidious game.

* * *

"I thought we'd start with something fairly simple," Gwaine says, glancing down at Percival. There's enough room in the tent to sit up with ample head clearance, but it makes Percival feel claustrophobic; he prefers lounging on his side, head propped on his arms. "Get everyone back in the saddle, so to speak."

Percival nods his encouragement. He's his favourite kind of tired – that honest, muscle-weary sort that comes from outdoor labour, chock full of fresh air and warm food. He studies Gwaine's rosy, wind-chapped cheeks and merry eyes and thinks mad thoughts about retirement. Maybe, if all goes well, Arthur could get them positions together at the hunting lodge some day, or off in some remote signal tower.

"I'm still not kissing his elbows," Arthur says from the other end of the tent, copying Percival's posture. His bag's arranged top-to-tail next to Merlin's, so this lands his feet practically in the other man's face. 

"Ugh!" Merlin jerks away, shoving at Arthur's legs. "Nor I your stinky mountain feet."

"Then this should be a piece of cake," Gwaine says. "No kissing required." 

Percival rolls onto his back at Gwaine's urging. Gwaine straddles him across the thighs and pauses there for a moment, just looking.

"Hey you," Percival mouths. He knows he has a fit body, has had plenty of people after him for his size, but there's something about the way Gwaine studies his face like he'll never get enough. Whenever they're together he's always looking, always checking in periodically with a glance and a smile, whether he's getting fucked from behind or they're watching a match at the pub.

Gwaine licks his lips and, smiling, places a hand on Percival's cheek, his thumb gently scuffing the contours. "Hey yourself."

Percival smiles up at him. Together, they turn their heads towards Merlin and Arthur. 

"Your turn," Gwaine says.

Percival's not in the least surprised to see Arthur looking disgruntled. Merlin, however, is gazing at them with a wistful smile.

"Right," he says, rousing himself. He scoots down so he's flat on his back and slaps his thighs. "Come on then, sir, if you must. Though I do wish you hadn't had second helpings." 

The joke falls flat, Arthur glaring at Merlin as if he's committed some terrible faux pas; there's no trace left of the laddish ease he'd displayed all through supper. 

"No," he says.

"No what?"

"I don't think this is a good idea." He glances at Gwaine. "Pick something else, Orkney."

"But you… you kissed me," Merlin protests, pushing up onto his elbows. "You've had your tongue on my – _in_ my – mouth, your hands just about everywhere else above my waist. What's the big deal with touching my face? It's like you've said before, you've had worse from blokes in Medical."

"Not like… No." Arthur sits up, shaking his head, and draws his knees to his chest.

It hurts Percival to see Merlin so confused – the look of mingled fury and despair he gives them is almost unbearable – but trusts that it will all come right soon. After all, there's only one reason he and Gwaine could think of for why this particular act would be so difficult for Arthur.

"So we're just going to give in now, are we?" Merlin says bitterly, sitting up. He rubs his hands over his face, then tucks them under his armpits. " _Now,_ after I've trekked up a bloody mountain and hauled a fuckton of rocks – while you were off playing scouts, mind – because of a bet _you_ insisted on seeing through? Fuck that, Arthur Pendragon. You may be a prince, and the best bloody field agent I've ever – "

"Oh, hey, easy now, Merlin," Gwaine cuts in. "Save the speeches. You're not done yet."

"Arthur?" Percival waits until he has the man's attention. "Just to clarify, would it be easier if it were the other way round – would you let Merlin touch your face?" 

Arthur swallows. "Touch my face, sure, but not all the looking stuff and the…" He trails off, gesturing at the way they're positioned. "It's too…intimate."

Merlin looks as if he's been slapped. Percival pushes up on his elbows and jerks his head for Gwaine to climb off. It's as they feared. Individually, Arthur and Merlin are at the top of their chosen specialities, but together – well, they just might be the biggest pair of idiots to have walked the land.

"Merlin, didn't you watch your video?" Percival says. 

"The one he shot with the new VidSpecs," Gwaine clarifies.

"What? No. He wouldn’t let me. Said it didn’t come out great, but it'd get the job done." Merlin glances over at Arthur, who's just buried his face in his hands. He shrugs. "Plus, who really wants to see themselves kissing, yeah? I figured it would be me looking like a smacked fish, then a lot of selfie chin and heavy breathing."

"Fuck no, my friend. You were gorgeous," Gwaine says, and Percival nods in agreement. "And this bastard, you should have seen the way he was looking at you. He was – " He gestures at Arthur. "Arthur, tell him. Or better yet, show him."

"The file was self-corrupting," Arthur mutters. "You know that. I wouldn’t leave a video like that floating around out there, even in CryptDrop. And we said we weren't bringing tech."

"Not the video," Percival says. "We mean _show_ him. Here. Now. Show him how you really feel about him."

Arthur's head comes up, and Percival's taken aback by how vulnerable he looks – nervous, far younger than his years. His voice, however, is all spit and polish. "That's not part of the game. I would never impose myself on – " 

"Ask Merlin if he minds," Gwaine cuts in. "Go on, ask him!"

Percival sees the flare of anger in Arthur's eyes at the interruption and places a hand on Gwaine's wrist, wordlessly urging restraint.

"If I mind what?" Merlin's up on his knees now, looking suspicious, hands clenched into fists on his lap. "Arthur?"

But Arthur still won't meet his eyes, so Merlin looks to Gwaine and Percival. 

"It's not really our place to – " Percival begins, just as Gwaine blurts, "He fancies the fuck out of you, mate. Wants to give you his heart, hands, and all seven hot inches. And I'm sorry, but if you can't see that after all that's happened, I don't know what you're doing with the SIS.

"And _you._ " Gwaine lifts his chin at Arthur. "I've never known you to be such a coward. Being your own man's not just about bucking family expectations and actually working for your people instead of exploiting them. If you're really so keen on it, you'd quit pissing him about and admit – "

"For fuck's sake!" Merlin shouts. "Will the pair of you just…leave it alone. Leave _him_ alone."

There's a long, awkward moment, nothing but the sound of the wind outside and Percival feeling like the tent's far too small for this – for the four of them – that it was all a terrible mistake. 

Then Arthur reaches out, capturing one of Merlin's fists, and finally looks at him.

"No, Merlin, he's right."

"What?" Merlin blinks, looking down at Arthur's hand on his like it's a foreign object. "You can't possibly want…"

Arthur grimaces, tugging on Merlin's hand. "Can't I?"

"But you're not gay."

"Er, no. But." Arthur pulls another face, scratching his jaw with his free hand. "Not straight either. So."

"So?"

Merlin looks so thoroughly gobsmacked it's hard not to laugh, and Percival can tell that Gwaine wants to. Fearing that it would ruin the mood, he squeezes Gwaine's wrist and tugs him down to lie beside him.

"Come here," he whispers. "Forget about them for a minute and kiss me, you mouthy bastard."

He's dimly aware, as Gwaine complies, of movement on the other side of the tent, of Arthur's exasperated, "So… _this_ " and Merlin's bitten-off protest turning into a low moan.

When Percival next looks over, Arthur's sitting with his legs splayed out across both his and Merlin's sleeping bags. He's got Merlin on his lap, one hand gripping his arse and the other fisted in his hair. 

By the looks of it, they're trying to do everything at once – arguing, kissing, interrogating one another about the what-when-hows and how-the-hell-was-I supposed-to-knows. Merlin's trying to worm his hands under Arthur's thermal layers while Arthur seems intent on grinding their clothed cocks together; they're both gasping for air, as feral and graceless as a pair of randy teens.

"Oh god," Gwaine moans, looking over his shoulder. "Knew it'd be like this."

Percival nuzzles at his ear, sucks the lobe between his teeth. "Roll over, love," he whispers. "I know you want to watch."

As soon as he's released, Gwaine turns over. Percival snugs him back against his chest and hips, mashing his swelling cock against Gwaine's arse, letting him feel how much this is turning him on, too.

"Fucking brilliant," Gwaine says, just as Merlin partially extracts himself, flailing an arm in their general direction and panting, "Wait, what about – "

"Let them watch," Arthur growls, nipping at Merlin's throat. "Let the whole bloody kingdom watch. I don't care. Not wasting one second more. Want your mouth on me, Merlin…get me all wet before I fuck my way inside this tight little– _mph._ "

Gwaine moans again, shifting his hips so his arse cradles, then rubs against Percival's cock. "Did he mean that?" he says. He twists his head, looking back. "Seriously, did he? Because I know we said no tech, but Gwen owed me a favour and – "

"Gwaine."

"What? Someone's got to field-test the new VidSpecs. Might as well be – "

"Oi." Percival gets a grip on Gwaine's chin. "For our eyes only, Goshawk. Don't push your luck."

He seals Gwaine's mouth up with a ravishing kiss, noting that Arthur and Merlin have abandoned everything else to do much the same. It starts out savage but soon grows tender, with open eyes and hands on one another's faces.

And while he's eagerly looking forward to the fucking – to driving Gwaine wild by timing his thrusts to Arthur's, to hearing if and how Merlin begs, and watching their faces go lax with pleasure – it's the kissing that heartens Percival the most, reassures him that this is no brilliant one-off. Nor, he suspects, does it have a thing to do with their wager. It's the sort of kiss that's less a trip-wire than a brick, the sort that, with the right partner, you find at the end of the fall, and can use to build something new.

It is, he thinks, about fucking time.

*** * * ***

**Author's Note:**

> ETA: And if you are squirming in your ~~pants~~ seat wanting to know what happens next in that tent and cursing me for a tease, I heartily suggest you head back on over to GeekLover's original and let her most excellent smut-with-feels satisfy all your needs: [Follow You Down](http://archiveofourown.org/works/841874).


End file.
